Grey to Blue
by Laine Montgomery
Summary: She'd been quick to accept their offer...too quick, really. Dmitri and Anya share a strange encounter en route to Paris. One-shot, rating for mild adult situations.


Clack-clack-clack. The rattle of the train settled into a rhythmic, predictable sort of clatter that Dmitri found oddly comforting. Never mind that the small boxcar left little room for stretching one's limbs; he had grown accustomed to curling his body into a compact package while attempting to conserve body heat. Crumbling ruins in the center of St. Petersburg tended to become drafty in winter.

Behind him, a series of raucous snorts and heavy breathing: Vladimir, fast asleep. The limited moonlight outlined the large man's frame, his chest heaving up and down. Dmitri glanced to his right, settling his gaze upon the girl's narrow silhouette. She sat cross-legged, still, with the mop-headed dog resting on her lap. He couldn't rightly tell if she was awake or asleep, and he cared little either way...as long as she remained silent.

She'd been quick to accept their offer...too quick, really. He'd initially waved it all off as hopeful naivety on her part, but Anya seemed rather too clever for that. Her biting remarks, her rough manners, her shrewd cobalt eyes...the girl had clearly seen and experienced much. Gullible, idealistic optimism suited her not at all.

A warm exhalation of breath by his ear, and he whipped his head around violently, muscles tensing in preparation for attack. He recognized Anya's exasperated sigh, accompanied by an impatient whisper, "It's only me. Will you relax?"

He heaved a breath of relief before replying tersely, "You should be asleep. It's late, you know."

"I know." In the darkness, Dmitri found her eyes, glowing with the dim reflection of the moon. She quirked a dark eyebrow before inching closer, placing a bony hand on his inner thigh. Dmitri started, blinking furiously at the girl and sputtering, "Wh-what do you think you're doing?"

"Earning my keep," she scoffed, her tone heavy with irony. Dmitri, rooted to the floor, glanced helplessly at the slumbering Vladimir, still snoring away in the background. "Don't worry," Anya continued, "I'll take care of him later. I know how this works."

Her hand began a steady motion toward his groin, and Dmitri felt his tension give way to her ministrations. His eyes fluttered shut...his breathing came quicker and quicker...and her hands...those little hands, so practiced, so precise...

He opened his eyes fractionally and observed her as she stroked him. She'd partially unbuttoned her ill-fitting shirt, revealing a stretch of pallid skin with little curvature to speak of. Her face, fine-boned and bird-like, remained focused, impassive and detached....she leaned into him, her small mouth closing on his earlobe, and he groaned softly....from pleasure, yes, but also from the strange, insidious form of heartbreak that accompanied the sight of her. This forgotten child of nothing, supposedly clinging to a dream of grandeur, but irrevocably aware of the reality of her situation. He wondered how many sticky fumblings and impromptu ravishings she'd experienced during the past decade...such was the life of a young girl from nowhere, with no one...

He placed a heavy hand upon her's, removing himself from her grip. Her brows knitted with consternation, but he spoke before she could, "Anya. No Grand Duchess behaves this way. Grandmamma wants to see a pristine little virgin, don't you agree?"

Silence, then an indignant huff, "You must think me a fool. I want to go to Paris. You're bringing me there...why? What's in it for you? I'm not a princess. I'm not a duchess or whatever else..." She slid her body backward, slumping defeatedly against the row of seats opposite Vladimir.

A sudden inspiration, a revelatory twinge of righteousness...in that moment, Dmitri forgot the money, forgot the fame, forgot Vlad and St. Petersburg and Paris...in that moment, he wanted her to believe. He wanted Anya to believe...to protect her, perhaps? He didn't know. But he summoned up all the surety he could muster before speaking again,

"I don't think you're a fool. I know, it all seems impossible...how could you be a princess? A dirty little orphan like you?" Her head lowered, her arms clinging to the little dog, her eyes darkening...

He leaned into her, his face nearly touching hers as he whispered, "But what if you ARE, Anya? What if you are?"

She looked up at him then, a gleam of hope combining with the moonlight, turning her greyish eyes a brilliant cerulean.

They smiled in tandem, and the train clattered on through the night.


End file.
